Sweetest Sin Of All
by ARoseLikeAnyOther
Summary: A simple encounter turned Camerlengo Carlo Ventrescas feelings upside down and let him question his complete life. - A story in which the Camerlengo is innocent. Carlo/OC
1. Prologue

Hey, welcome to my first fanfiction.  
Yeah, I liked the camerlengo very much (in the movie and the book), so I decided to write about him. In this story Carlo/Patrick (I use the name from the book) isn't to blame for the murders and the theft of the antimatter. More or less he is innocent.

This is just the prologue, so it won't happen that much. But I hope you enjoy it anyway.

English isn't my first language and I am still practicsing, so my English is not perfect. The original story is written in German and it was a little bit hard to translate it without loosing the meaning. So please excuse some mistakes.

May you leave some comments...? ;)

* * *

Camerlengo Carlo Ventresca looked down on St. Peter's Square. Wrapped in warm, bright lights, like to cast out the darkness in this night, it seemed to extend to unbelievable capaciousness. The sight was breathtaking. For a moment Carlo remained silently and beheld the view showed to him. Carlo was just a silhouette from volatile flickering fire illuminated in the nearly dark room. The trembling flames mirrored in his green eyes.

Slowly his memories returned. Memories which Carlo had displaced until now. Memories which wouldn't fade away, but got more present.  
The pope, his father, was dead...murdered by Carlos own hands. The scientist. The _preferiti._ And of course the people at St. Peter's Square. The Camerlengo had taken lives, hundred...no, a thousand risked. Unbelieving he shook his head, like he could not understand what he had done. Like it was just _impossible_.

 _I've killed my father!  
I've murdered five other people!  
I've risked the lives of innocents!  
I've risked _her _life!  
_

Carlo shook his head again, unable to accept, what he had done. He disavowed it. _No! It can't be true!_  
The sharp pain in his chest returned, the lively and continuous reminder of his guilt. The brand. Carlo could feel how the iron burned his flesh deeply, yet. And the brand would stay there for the rest of his life. This was his punishment.

Seeking help he raised his eyes to the cross hanging on the wall. Illuminated from the light of the ingle -the only sort of light in the room- it was hardly visible. Merely its red-lighted silhouette was identifiable. _Forgive me._ But today the well known, depressant power, which he had wished for, didn't seem to comfort him. Nearly accusingly the cross reminded him that what he had done happened in the name of church, in the name of the faith which was Carlos everything.  
 _What have you done? You have stained with blood what you love. With the blood of innocent people.  
_

"No, I... I didn't want to!" He shook his head desperately. He wanted to defend himself against it. But against what he did not know. Against his guilt? Against his own hell? Against himself? But the voice which was always by his side, the voice of God, remained silent.

"Please! Tell me... what shall I do?"

A single tear was cleaving its way down Carlos cheek. It was the only indication of the fight cavorting inside the camerlengo. His world crashed down over him, and it didn't seem to end. Which lagged was a pile of shards cutting his skin and leaving Carlo back bleeding.

Carlo sank on his knees. "Please...please tell me what should I do, Father."

Silence.

With tear-veiled view he looked up to the timber cross beseechingly which he had seen nearly every day in this room, where the memories of his father were more painful than in any other. But Carlo vainly hoped for an answer.

 _How could it come so far, father?_ He had stained his hands with blood, and, as well, church. He had never wanted this! Even if he wasn't the only one to bear the blame...he had let them turn him into their implement. How could he have known what he would trigger?

"The voice in your heart is the voice of God", he heard the soft voice of his adoptive father. _Why did it lead me to kill you? Why did it turn me into a murderer? How could_ I _allow it!_ Eagerly than ever before Carlo Ventresca wanted the closeness of his father whom he had got to know only as adoptive father, but loved like his real. So much the worse was the truth that he was to blame for his absence... for his death.

Crying he kneeled on the floor, his body trembled from agonized sobs. The pain that let him shiver didn't match anything known.  
Not with the pain when the illuminati-diamond had burned mercilessly into his chest.  
Not with the pain when he learned about his mother's death.  
It was like he was falling deeper and deeper into an endless dark abyss. Nothing around him seemed to exist. Even the floor under his feet seemed absent. Carlo was in hell.

He stared at his hands like numb. Those blood stained hands.  
 _What am I doing?_  
Painfully with trembling legs he got up, let his view sweep to illuminated St. Peter's Square. _You know what you have to do. You know how to end it._ Yes, the answer seemed quite easy. It was the only way out. It was the _right_ one _._  
Carlo heard the voices outside on Piazza San Pietro and knew what he had to do. For a heartbeat he closed his eyes and permitted the memories. At the time this all had begun... _Forgive me, Father._


	2. Chapter 1- What our heart wish were true

_Four weeks ago..._

The giant ceiling fresco of the Sistine Chapel extended above Carlos head. Today the young priest realized the larger-than-life account of genesis, created by Michelangelo himself, hardly. More than that he tried to cleave his way through the crowd to _Scala Regia_ , the Royal Staircase. One of the places which couldn't be visited by tourists blessedly. It should have filled him with happiness that so many people attended St. Peter's Basilica, likewise the _Capella Sistina_ and the Vatican Museum. But they seemed to be just sights for people, nothing else. Sighing the camerlengo let his view sweep over the crowds of tourists. How many of the them were probably catholic? Or at least Christians?  
Just one of these tourist, a young woman, brought him back to reality. "Excuse me?"  
Surprised the camerlengo raised his eyes, even though he should have become accustomed to be appealed by tourists. After all it didn't appear rarely.  
The woman smiled at him friendly. "The _Temptation of Christ_ ", briefly she pointed at a mural, before she continued speaking, "it is created by Botticelli, isn't it?"  
Carlo nodded. "It is. And the ceiling fresco and the _last judgment_ are by-"  
"Michelangelo", she ended his sentence smiling.  
The camerlengo nodded again. " _Di preciso._ Right. You are interested in arts?" He was caught by surprise by himself, because of asking this question. Usually he didn't like to conduct long conversations with tourists - far from it.  
"Could say so." With a last smile she thanked for the information and vanished in the amount of remaining people in the Sistine Chapel. For a moment Carlo looked after her.  
Shaking his head he continued his way, before he stepped down _Scala_ _Regia_.

The stifling heat of the for this season too hot noon gave just slowly way to the warm evening air. Through the windows fell the light of the evening sun, drowned Rome in a reddish light and the _Cathedra Petri_ , St. Peter's Cathedra, shone resplendent in it. The larger-than-life throne seemed to hover down on clouds, held up by four bronze statues. Above the heaven appeared to be open like it wanted to make way for the sunlight, which broke the golden clouds away. Framed by angel's choirs the dove was outlined against the oval window over the throne of St. Peter. Looking down on the people in the basilica it seemed to truss the sunrays and sent them down to the altar.  
Reverently Carlo beheld the nearly celestial view and stunned again how so many people could dismiss this as an ordinary sight like any else. Did they lack in faith that much? Was the world so much reigned by science that no one paid attention to this little miracles? Differently he could not explain himself how people could look at this altar...and did not see the same like Carlo.  
They looked at a sight like any other. Carlo looked on a masterpiece, a godsend. Each time he stood here in St. Peter's Basilica he was comparably shocked. All public available places of Vatican City were stormed by tourists, but nobody appeared to be aware of the true meaning of _San Pietro_. No one of them came here just to pray. Nary...  
Carlo felt how humans veered away from church more than ever. But what would be left to them? Science? Something, which could indeed answer their questions, but was not able to be support for them?  
 _Someone has to lead them back to church, show them how necessary faith is._ But he also knew that this required almost a miracle and "miracles" were created daily. Miracles of science. The camerlengo looked up to the altar as if he hoped for an answer. However, this time he did not derive comfort from its bright view, solely memories of past but not forgotten times...  
" _Carlo!_ " The camerlengo guessed to hear his mother's voice, this unmistakable, lovely sound. The memories of this one day, years ago in Carlo's childhood, overwhelmed him. The walls of St. Peter turned into those of a small church in Palermo. The church his mother had taken him to, when he was only ten years old. Then, unexpectedly, the world had seemed to crash down. An enormous explosion... Blood had been raining from the sky... Blinding flashes... The world around him had been torn in a deafening fulmination. Not only the church, but also Carlo's life was laid into ruins this day. At that time she had died. Maria, his mother.  
For a moment he closed his eyes to shake off those painful memories. As Carlo had opened it again, he hold his breath. His attention didn't center on the altar, but something... _someone_ in front of. Apparently deepened in the view of the _Cathedra Petri_ like Carlo moments ago a young woman sat on one of the pews, just a few meters away. She looked up to the altar, fascinated by its view. Even if Carlo did not know why, she seemed to be different than all the other tourist around him. She appeared to see what Carlo saw, when he looked at the altar. _The gates to heaven._  
But as unexpected as this moment had come, it ended, as the woman looked down. But not in order to pray, no, her focus was on something completely different. What it was Carlo could not perceive by reason of the distance. But it had nothing to do with praying.  
The beautiful picture in front of Carlo got cracks. He had erred, had hoped to see that one thing in her he always missed in other people. Faith. But he should have known that it couldn't be more than a too lovely fantasy.  
His look swept along the clearing central aisle. Blessedly the greatest rush of tourists was already over. Just sporadic Carlo could see some people standing close to each other's and speaking quietly or admiring the artworks in the basilica or, and this was that one thing the camerlengo disdained, taking photos. However, here and there he recognized Italian visitors who had often been in St. Peter's.  
Once again Carlo viewed the altar, before he took a deep breath, flattened his cassock and set out for his office to finish his work of today. Fast and absorbed in thought the camerlengo walked across the main sanctuary, passed the crossing over which the four pentagonal columns carried dome towered. The young woman who carried a sketchbook Carlo already didn't pay regard.  
An intense crash brought him back to reality a little bit ungentle. _What...?_ Before he understood, he felt a hand grabbing the cloth of his cassock searching for hold. Crinkly the sketchbook fell to the floor at which the paper spread out across the marble.  
Amazed Carlo looked in a pair of dark brown eyes, which beheld him wide opened in shock. He recognized the woman slowly. She was the girl sitting on the pew minutes ago...the one who attracted his attention, wasn't she? " _S-Scusi, Padre_ ", she stuttered in surprise.  
Some tourists were already looking at them and murmured to each others some things the young camerlengo couldn't decode at this distance. His gaze slid to her hand, which still clutched his cassock.  
Quickly she unclasped the black priest's vestment. " _Scusi._ I'm sorry." The young woman looked him over, caught sight of his pellegrina, a short shoulder cape reaching to the elbow. Amazed she added a gentle "monsignor" to her excuse. "I am really bearish sometimes, sorry", she said in accentless Italian. She seemed to recover her composure, because now a apologetic, soft smile appeared on her lips. With a gentle sigh she began to pick up the pages of her sketchbook. _This she was looking at so concentrated before? A sketchbook?_  
"You haven't to apologize, _signorina_ ", Carlo replied smiling, while he was helping her. He picked up one sheet and beheld the incomplete sketch for a moment. Nearly at once he knew what it represented. _Cathedra Petri_. Beautiful in its simplicity. But it was not this that fascinated him that much. It was the way it showed St. Peter's Cathedra. Illuminated from the light of the sun it emitted the nearly heavenly atmosphere which astonished Carlo every time anew. And all this sense shown with some simple lines. So that she was doing before as Carlo looked at her? She was drawing St. Peter's Cathedra?  
"You like to draw?", he asked, surprised by the power that this simple picture exerted on him.  
Shyly smiling the woman brushed a wisp of hair behind her ear. "Every now and then."  
Carlo smiled. "That's brilliant."  
"Are you serious?" Surprised she looked up to him, apparently not to be sure if she had misheard. She had not expected to hear a compliment.  
"I am." Carlo believed that he had met her before. But where? Abruptly he remembered. Wasn't that her who had stopped him in the Sistine Chapel?  
" _Grazie._ Thank you." She gave him a bright smile, before she continued picking the sheets of paper.  
Only now the opportunity arose to look his vis-á-vis over. The woman was surprisingly young in comparison to her voice, which sounded adeptly in the ears of the camerlengo, too old for such a young girl. But as he could spot her face clearly now, Carlo guessed her to be in her twenties. Auburn hair fell in gentle waves on her shoulders, framed her beautiful, unmistakably Italian face. Her eyes were conspicuous; big, amber with a tender green gleam, reframed by long, dark eyelashes and filled with warmth. Carlo wished to be able to see what was going on behind those, to see her thoughts. In vain. Her filigree necklace swung softly in the rhythm of her movements. A little pendant was fixed at it...a silver cross.  
The camerlengo had to avow unwillingly that she was handsome. A little bit to fast he broke away his gaze from her and cast out this thoughts. With a smile he handed her the remaining sketches.  
" _Grazie._ " A little bit shyly she brushed a wisp of hair behind her ear, like before, while she looked at him slightly helpless. She seemed to search for the right words. Her hands flattened her white summer dress, which formed a contrast to her bronzed skin... and it was surprisingly short. Carlo froze instantly. Who allowed her in with _that_ clothes?  
The instructions claimed, that shoulders and knees had to be coated in St. Peter's Basilica, like in every other chapel, and the security checks in Vatican City were really strict. _This_ dress hardly seemed to comply with these aspects, maybe with very much imagination. Daily Carlo had to see the profanities of some tourists here, but this excelled most of them.  
For the second time on this day Carlo feared that he had been mistaken about this woman.  
She appeared to be clear on his irritation, because now she looked bashfully at the ground. "I-I'm sorry, Father. I didn't want to... I finally wanted to take the opportunity to visit _San Pietro_ and I didn't think about...", she stuttered nearly unintelligibly in a low voice.  
"You are a tourist?", he asked more keen than he wanted to. But this would explain her clothes at least.  
She shook her head. "No, I'm Italian. As of late I actually live in Rome. But I hadn't any time to visit _San Pietro_..." She forced a faint strained smile and as Carlo didn't reply anything the woman brushed away a strand of hair, seemingly a habit of her.  
"You are living here?" He didn't want to sound that surprised.  
" _Sì._ " The woman -he realized that he didn't even know her name- nodded assuaged. "For three months."  
"And in these three months you hadn't time to come here to visit St. Peter?" Already in the same moment Carlo hated himself for saying something so stupid and ungraceful. He bit his tongue, as he wished this words back. _That's no concern of mine!_ And it sounded nearly like criticism.  
But she didn't seem to notice. With a friendly smile on her face she answered: "I am a physician, Father. So there is not that much leisure time for things like that."  
"Really? You are a physician?"  
A brief nodding from her side, followed by silence. Carlo searched convulsive for something to answer without any results.  
She glanced at her watch. "I should go. _Arrivederla"_ , she said a little bit too hasty and gave him a smile, before she quickly walked across the Basilica and stepped through the exit.  
With bewilderment Carlo looked after her, then he beheld the sketch in his hands the women had left.

Maddalena, or simply Alena, Giordano rushed through St. Peter's Basilica, flashed a glance back over her shoulder. Under a swirl of coarse brown hair, which he had narrowly repressed, the green eyes of the young priest looked after her. How had she ended up in this situation? Of all things she had to ran into a priest. The cherry on the top had been her dress. With a short summer dress in St. Peter's Basilica! How could she have been so stupid? Alena wondered how often she had apologized the last few minutes. For a thousand times presumably.  
This priest had to believe her to be totally crazy! And maybe he was not just a normal priest, but a person of high standing in Vatican City - at least the pellegrina he was wearing showed that to her.  
And over all she had had to act like a shy little girl. Not even the simplest question she was able to answer without sounding totally doting. Awkward, simply awkward!  
But the strict catholic upbringing of her parents didn't allow her to preserve her composure in presence of a cleric. The black cassock alone was able to grant someone enough authority that she get instantly contained, even if the priest was friendly like this man.  
Shaking her head Alena passed the exit and crossed the evening-sunlight flooded square, leaving St. Peter's Basilica behind.


End file.
